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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26341189">Donaukinder</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aamalysstuff/pseuds/Aamalysstuff'>Aamalysstuff</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Death, Everything Hurts, F/M, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Male-Female Friendship, POV Female Character, Temporary Character Death, World War II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:27:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,667</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26341189</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aamalysstuff/pseuds/Aamalysstuff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>December 3rd, 1942 - Romania and Hungary are surrounded by the wreckage of Stalingrad, contemplating their own deaths and dealing with it the only way they know how - by getting absolutely fucking drunk together.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>HunRom bromance, Hungary &amp; Romania (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Donaukinder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You know, I remember when <em> Mátyás...”  </em></p><p>„Surely you mean <em> Matei. </em> ” </p><p>Hungary’s train of thought was promptly interrupted. A deep sting of ire, a burn in her stomach. </p><p>“He was <em> mine </em> . King of <em> Hungary </em>, don’t forget that.” </p><p>“How could I forget? The last time you were relevant, and your king was <em> Romanian. </em>” Romania was looking at her with this mean little smirk tugging on his mouth. His face was too pale, and gaunt, and full of fucking bruises. “Does it sting?”</p><p>“It stings <em> you </em> .” She shot back through gritted teeth and took a gulp out of the flask of <em> palinka </em> they were sharing. She grimaced – it was strong, but you couldn’t really taste any flavor because it was so fucking <em> cold. </em>Her mouth was all stinging, because her lip was ruined, and she had missing molars that she spit into the snow of Stalingrad hours before. </p><p><em> “Baszd meg, </em> Erzsi, you know it does.” He held out his hand and she threw the flask at him. Romania held it to his mouth, tipped it at her with a muttered “ <em> Noroc </em>,” before emptying it all.  After he finished it, he closed his eyes and let his head fall heavily onto the wall behind him. The Russian winter was so cold that his breath turned to ice when he breathed. </p><p>“How the fuck did we end up here?” He asked, no one in particular. She wanted to make a joke, a snide remark, ‘<em> I thought you wanted to be like your big brother France, here’s your chance to die in the Russian winter’.  </em></p><p>She didn’t say anything, and he didn’t say anything more either, because the answer was between – Russia’s great menacing shadow and Prussia. </p><p>“I saw <em> him </em> stop a damn tank with his bare hands.” There was no need to clarify who <em> he </em>was, it was Russia, it was always Russia. Huge and looming and so strong he was capable of tearing into their armies bare-handed. “They shoot him point blank and he just doesn’t stop.” </p><p>“And Prussia’s taking longer and longer to wake up. I can <em> feel  </em>him, you know. Can’t you? That magic in him, it’s getting weaker and weaker.” Romania’s laugh sounded like it was getting scrapped from his chest. “And we’re out of fucking booze.” </p><p>There was a chunk of Transylvania that had been cut out of Romania and added to Hungary. She felt how it was pulsing through her, how her body was struggling to assimilate it, but rejecting it at the same time. A festering wound. </p><p>There was a low grade fever running through her blood, making her weak and dizzy and nauseous. </p><p>Romania was always looking at her like he was expecting her to fall over, like he was looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time. </p><p>There was a particular brand of resentment between the two of them, heavy and sooty and painful. All these things that spread across a thousand years, but a sense of understanding, too. In this, they understood each other. </p><p>Gilbert had been killed again this morning, and he wasn’t waking up. </p><p>Hungary was used to the way Prussia recklessly threw himself into the fray of a battle, how he died and died and woke up just to get the chance to die again. Bullets and swords and bombs, if there was one thing Prussia was good at, it was <em> dying </em> and shrugging it off. </p><p>But he wasn’t waking up as easily anymore, he wasn’t shrugging it off, he wasn’t waking up. Minutes and hours passed - Hungary sat next to his body and sometimes Romania sat next to her too. They shared palinka and vodka and filterless cigarettes until their throats were raw. </p><p>She waited for Gilbert to start breathing. </p><p>“If he doesn’t…” She couldn’t say <em> it </em> , “How do we go back to Lud…- <em> Germany </em> with that?” </p><p>There was desperation in her voice, the kind that was bubbling deeply from between her ribs, her bones, her thoughts, formed in the spaces that were usually filled with memories. Things she didn’t think about but were <em> part of her.  </em></p><p>She thought about Ludwig - the cute little wide eyed boy he had been, back when he was a kid glued to his elder brother’s side; the haggard young man that she had seen after the Great War. She had been so caught up in the anger and humiliation she suffered after the war, so lost in the heady freedom and the choking bitterness and the <em> struggle. </em>Somehow she missed it, she had missed the moment in which Ludwig turned into this frighteningly powerful force, she didn’t notice how he got swept away by all those hateful men with their black uniforms that poured poison into his ears and kept him isolated. </p><p>But he was still <em> Ludwig</em>, and Prussia had come to her in the summer swelter and told her that he was going to war in the East, that he was going to war against Russia because he didn’t want his little brother to be the one facing him. Hungary had known then, <em> that thing </em> she didn’t want to see, that thing she didn’t want to accept. </p><p>Romania’s laughter cracked through the air. </p><p>“Erzsi, you’re an optimist. You think we’re going back from this.”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, you morbid bastard. We’ve been through wars before, we've been through this before and we….” </p><p>“Have we? Look around, Hungary, has any other war felt like this before?”  He opened his arms to the neverending wasteland of death. The desolation, the darkness, the cold, the fucking <em> cold</em>. “Has it ever felt like this before?” Romania shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. </p><p>Hungary’s throat was scraped raw, her lungs ached, her stomach was twisting. </p><p>“Do you think you’ve had enough?” She asked him, the question falling out of her mouth before she had the chance to think about it. In answer, he only shrugged. </p><p>“Doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, happens.” His voice had that laughter in it, that old man philosophy that wanted to say <em> I don’t care </em> - it was born out of anger and hopelessness and inability to do anything.  “I might freeze to death, or Russia’s gonna tear me apart, or America is gonna bomb me when he gets there, or I might just have to throw myself in the damn Danube and be done with it all. It doesn’t matter if I’ve had enough.”</p><p>Then there was silence, silence, <em> silence, </em>she willed it to be silent inside her head because any noise would break the fragile bubble inside her. Breathing hurt her lungs. </p><p>“Are you sure we’re out of booze?”</p><p>“We’re out of <em> good </em> booze. No more <em> palinka </em>, but I think we can find some vodka.” </p><p>Romania pushed himself up and walked up behind Hungary. He put his chin on her shoulder and looked at the corpse, the stillness of Prussia’s body unnatural as he was laying down on the cot they placed him on. Romania always struggled to play it cool and aloof, like he was too enlightened to give a shit about those around him, but Hungary knew it was an act. She thought he was an asshole most of the time, but he wasn’t heartless, if anything, he felt too much and too deeply and passionately. </p><p>Hungary felt the heartbreak in his shaky breath, felt the uncertainty and the fright.</p><p>She didn’t say anything as he stepped away from her, she just stood there, watching how the snow fell, how Prussia remained still. </p><p>When Romania came back, he had a half empty bottle of vodka with him. He opened the bottle and instead of sampling it or offering it to Hungary, he turned it over and let it pour onto the frozen ground beneath. </p><p>“Why are you wasting it?” </p><p>“Hush, woman. The dead want a drink too. They get thirsty.” </p><p> “Dead men don’t need alcohol, but I <em> do </em> .” <br/><br/>“I think if I were dead, I’d be flattered to see people waste their shitty vodka on me. Wouldn’t you?” </p><p>She opened her mouth to respond, only to close it back up with a chuckle. </p><p>“If you were dead, you’d come back to haunt me.” </p><p>“Probably,” he agreed, “Women live longer, you know. Can’t let you rot around here all alone.” </p><p>When they had still been married, Roderich joked that he would be dead without her. She had laughed at it then, and she still wanted to laugh about it now, because if not, she was going to start crying. </p><p>Sometimes her thoughts raced ahead of her and she was forced to confront them before she had the chance to lock them away: she imagined herself having to bury Gilbert, having to bury Roderich, having to bury Andrei afterwards, having to bury Feliks. If women live longer, was this going to be the faith of her - to keep wake over corpses and wait for them to start breathing again. </p><p>She closed her eyes and ran her tongue over her teeth, left all the empty spaces in her mouth that tasted like blood and weren’t healing. </p><p>“Hey, Andrei?” </p><p>“Hmmm?” </p><p>“When this is all over, let’s get shitfaced together.” </p><p>“I thought we were already doing that.” Romania shot back at her, “See? You can have what’s left of the shitty vodka.” He offered her the bottle now, a little bit of alcohol sloshing at the bottom of it.</p><p>“No, you moron, not like this. I mean, let’s just - go drinking. I know you make your own <em> palinka </em>. Let’s just...you know, without all the...” Her tongue left heavy and her throat was all closed up. She wanted to say a word, something that eluded her. What was the best way to describe the Eastern fucking Front? </p><p>Romania looked at her with an expression that wasn’t soft, wasn’t fond, but wasn’t hateful or angry either. There was a whole spectrum of emotions between soft and hateful, but she had no idea what to settle on. </p><p>“If we’re still alive….” </p><p>Hungary nodded. </p><p>The snow kept falling over Stalingrad.</p>
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